


Dirty Work

by wocket



Category: American (US) Actor RPF, John Mulaney - Fandom, Saturday Night Live, Saturday Night Live RPF, US Comedians RPF
Genre: Con Artists, Crimes & Criminals, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-04
Updated: 2019-03-04
Packaged: 2019-11-08 20:22:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17987924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wocket/pseuds/wocket
Summary: Criminal AU. My Fair Lady meets Dirty Rotten Scoundrels when master criminal John Mulaney takes fledgling pickpocket Pete Davidson under his wing to pull off the greatest art heist in New York's history.





	Dirty Work

John Mulaney is taking the subway to his New York City apartment on a balmy Thursday evening when Pete Davidson first crosses his path. John steps off the train and the skinny young man dressed in an oversized orange hoodie bumps into him. Limbs akimbo, John almost trips over his feet, and the man extends a hand, helping him stand up. 

“Thank you,” John says, and they see the wallet on the ground at the exact same time. John bends forward, picking up the wallet. The edges are brimming with cash. 

“There’s $20 missing,” Pete says, inspecting the wallet after John hands it back to him.

“Is there?” John asks, a funny look on his face.

“Uh, yeah, man. It’s gone.”

“Look again,” John tells him confidently. The young man starts to get agitated.

“Hey, do I need to call the cops?” Pete threatens.

John steps closer to the man, then takes another step - bringing Pete dangerously close to the edge of the subway platform. John was more than familiar with the dropped wallet scam.

“Is this the point where your marks start to get nervous?”

“Uh -” Pete swallows. Pete tries to step back and his foot slips off the edge of the platform. John reaches a hand out, pulling him back in by his hoodie, allowing Pete to regain his footing.

“You've got the wrong man,” John tells him before disappearing into the shadows.

*

John sees Pete in the same subway station a week later. When they get on the train, John watches him lift a sparkly wallet from an oversized purse and then steal a black wallet from a man’s pocket three minutes later. _He’s quick_ , John thinks, observing how nobody seems to pay attention to the young man. He brushes past him to take a seat.

When they step off the train, a police officer is waiting on the platform. Before John knows what’s happening, he sees Pete with his arms behind his back as the officer snaps him into handcuffs. As he steers the young man around, John finally gets a glimpse of the officer’s face. _Shit_ , he thinks, _it’s Lt. Meyers_.

John sidles up to them and puts his hands on his hips. “Officer.”

“You,” Lt. Meyers says, a sparkle in his blue eyes. Meyers busted John about a year ago, and had taken a liking to the young thief. Lt. Meyers knew John had fallen in with Lorne Michaels, and the cop had begged John to think twice about his involvement with the criminal mastermind. He decided not to book him, letting John off with a warning despite his better judgment. John hopes for his mercy now. “Fancy meeting you here. Is this one with you?” he asks, jerking his chin toward Pete.

“He’s just messing around,” John tells him. “He’s harmless.”

“Oh?”

“I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again.” 

Lt. Meyers takes a long, hard look at John. He sighs, then uncuffs Pete and slaps him on the shoulder. “Stay out of trouble.”

“You got it, officer,” Pete says gratefully. “You again?” Pete asks when the cop disappears.

“I’m starting to think you might not actually be any good at this.”

Pete realizes that John must know exactly what he’s been up to. John pulls out a black wallet from his back pocket - the same one Pete had lifted from the stout old man earlier. Pete’s jaw drops and he reaches into the pocket of his baggy pants. “Oh shit,” Pete says, realizing the wallet is gone - the one in John's hand is the very same one.

John tosses him the wallet.

“You should shake it up more,” John tells him. “What’s your name, kid?”

“Pete,” he responds, before he can think better of his decision.

“Follow me, Pete.”

*

Most people wouldn’t follow a stranger they met on the subway, but Pete’s afternoon is free. Plus, the skinny white man he tried to pickpocket the other day didn’t look like the “wrong man” at all. He was a thin man, six feet tall with a brown crew cut that had grown out just a little bit, and he wore a blue three-piece suit. _Dude was probably just observant_ , Pete tells himself.

The man pulls out a pack of cigarettes as they walk down the sidewalk. He sticks one in his mouth and lights it, offering one to Pete. He accepts.

“You gonna tell me your name?”

“John,” he says, taking a drag. Pete watches his slender fingers curl around the cigarette.

Pete follows John for about a mile until they get to a seedy walk-up apartment. John’s place is nicer on the inside than the building looks outside, and Pete is impressed. It’s meticulous. 

“Would you like a drink?” John offers.

“Oh, alright. Yeah.”

John opens the refrigerator and returns with two glasses of milk. Pete was expecting a beer, and he hides his laughter behind the glass. 

“Tell me, Pete. Of all the things you’ve stolen, what’s been the most expensive?”

“Are you a cop?” Pete asks bluntly.

John smiles and shakes his head, like he thinks it’s terribly amusing. “I’m a professional. Do you catch my grift? Er, drift?”

It takes a moment but it sinks in. John’s a thief, too. “Oh. Right.” John looks at him expectantly. “Your question. Uh, maybe like a Mazda Miata?”

John nods - it’s not the response he expected to hear, but he likes the answer. “I want to help you,” he says, having taken immediately to Pete’s charming personality.

“You want to help me? Or… you want me to help you?” Pete knows how this goes. 

“I think we can help each other.” John steeples his fingers and leans forward. “Have you ever been to the Museum of Modern Art?”

Pete shakes his head no.

John pulls up a painting on his cellphone. “Meet ‘Drowning Girl’,” he says, holding the phone out for Pete.

“Art theft? Really? I’ve only boosted cars and wallets and like, a couple of dogs.”

“You have potential,” John tells him. “I think I can help you reach that full potential.”

“Oh yeah? How?”

“I teach you everything I know, and in return, you help me lift this painting.”

Pete looks like he’s thinking it over. Finally he nods, and holds his hand out for John to shake. 

John smiles. “We’re going to make a lot of money together.”

*

Pete loves looking around John’s apartment, studying the carefully curated possessions. He finds a lot of books - Joan Didion, Philip Roth, George Carlin - along with vinyl records and an extensive movie collection.

Pete is stoked when he sees a blue Fender bass propped up in a corner. He picks it up, throwing the strap around his shoulders, missing the obviously phony "Phender" label on the head of the instrument. “Sick, man! You play?”

Pete plays a few notes. John appears in front of him with crossed arms. “I haven’t picked it up in a while. What are you doing tonight?”

*

John explains everything Pete needs to know on the walk to the diner. Pete goes in first, alone, bass over his shoulder, ordering a black coffee and a plate of scrambled eggs. 

“Just eggs?”

“Starving artist,” Pete says, motioning to the bass. ”You get it.”

Pete likes the attention he gets from the waitress, who assumes he’s a musician. At the end of the meal, Pete reaches for his wallet, making a big show of it when his pockets are empty.

“Jenny? I’m so sorry. I misplaced my wallet,” he says. “Please let me run back to my apartment and get some cash. It’s two blocks away. Here - I’ll leave my girl with you,” he says, fondling his case. “She’s signed by Walter Becker.”

The waitress _oohs_ , pretending to be impressed. She has no idea who Walter Becker is.

“I’d do anything to get her back. Don’t worry - it’ll just be five minutes. I’ll be super fast.”

“I guess it’s okay,” she says, letting Pete hand her the instrument. 

As Pete exits the diner, John (who had entered the diner sometime during their conversation) walks up to the waitress. “I’m sorry. Did he say that this instrument was signed by Walter Becker?”

“Yeah, I guess,” she says, sticking her notepad into her apron.

“I am a _huge_ Steely Dan fan,” he gushes.

“He’s great,” the waitress says. She has no idea who Steely Dan is. John refrains from rolling his eyes, although he considers giving up on the whole con at that very moment to educate his waitress. 

“I’ll give you two thousand dollars for this,” John says, reaching for it. The waitress slips her hand on top of it.

“I don’t know,” she says, feeling a weird allegiance to Pete.

“Five thousand?” John mocks disgust when she shakes her head no.

“Here’s my card,” he says, tucking it into her apron. “Tell the kid to call me.”

John disappears out the back door a few moments before Pete slip backs in, waving cash in the air. He hands a twenty dollar bill to the waitress. “Thanks, doll,” he says, tipping her generously.

“Say… did you mean what you said about being a starving artist?”

“You know it,” Pete grins.

She runs her finger across the edge of the business card John gave to her. Instead of handing the card to Pete, she pulls out some cash from her pocket, pushing Pete’s money back toward him.

“I’m thinking of picking up an instrument. What do you say you let me try this one?”

Pete pretends to be impressed by the cash. He looks in his wallet, making a show of how empty it is. Looking sad, he nods. “Well, I do have to make rent this weekend.”

She pulls out another wad of cash from her pocket. She hands him the money and he leaves the bass in her hands. Her fingers close around John’s business card in her apron.

Pete exits the diner with a grin, walking two blocks east to meet up with John. He does a victory dance when he catches up with him, waving the cash. “We got it, we got it!”

John looks around, pushing Pete’s hand down. “Put it away.”

“This is sick,” Pete says, counting out the cash. The waitress had given them $400 in the hopes of turning around and selling the bass to John - who had no intention of giving her any money for it whatsoever. Pete splits the money and hands John his half, which he tucks away quickly.

Pete has a bounce in his step on the walk back to John’s apartment. “I thought I was good at this! I never knew how far this could go.” He claps his hands together. “I’ll do it,” Pete tells John happily. “The art thing. I’ll do it.”

*

The two men spend days sitting around John’s apartment while he teaches Pete to perfect his sleight of hand. Pete’s decent enough at lifting a wallet, but John is smooth in a way Pete has never seen. His long fingers are like tools, deft and quick, and he can move through a crowd like a ghost. His charming personality endears him to everyone, just friendly enough to avoid both suspicion and becoming too memorable.

John teaches Pete to be precise with his hands and his language. Pete’s slang is sloppy and he has a habit of trailing off sentences like he’s speaking with ellipses. John demands refinement, demonstrating enunciation and precision. More than just a criminal role model, John teaches Pete about a great variety of subjects: about art, playwriting, jazz music, and libraries. He teaches Pete how to pronounce words like _bourgeois_ and how to tie a tie, makes him watch DVDs of magicians to learn prestidigitation and tapes of comedians and illusionists to learn the art of transformation and what it means to live in someone else’s skin. John teaches Pete anything he wants to know.

John finishes his overly wordy legal overview of retail theft, and Pete snorts, a loud sound that turns into an ugly snicker.

“ _Ha ha_ ,” John says, emphasizing the syllables.

“Ha ha ha,” Pete repeats, rolling his eyes. “Yo, you can’t just teach someone how to laugh.”

“You must be able to blend in to be a more effective criminal,” John insists.

“Yeah, man,” Pete says.

“Yes, _sir_ ,” John corrects.

“Yes, sir,” Pete echoes. Both men deny the thrill it sends down their spines. 

“You must enunciate.”

“I’m gonna enunciate all over your face,” Pete guffaws. John shakes his head, disappointed.

“Your very being is an insult to the English language.” Pete flips him off. “Repeat after me: she sells sea shells by the sea shore.”

“She shells she shells by the sea shore,” Pete tries to repeat, stumbling over the words. “She sells she - she sells sea shells by the sea shore.”

“A proper cup of coffee from a proper copper coffee pot.”

“A propa cup of coffee from a propa copper coffee pot,” Pete says, his Staten Island accent thickening around the O sound in “coffee”, making it sound like an AW.

“Articulate!”

“I don’t get this,” Pete complains. “When am I ever gonna use this, you know what I mean?”

“What a to-do to die today at a minute or two ’til two - a thing distinctly hard to say but harder still to do.”

Pete puts his face in his hands and groans.

*

John teaches Pete to run all manner of scams. One of Pete’s favorites is learning how to find a name in the phone book, do some research, and make a phone call to that person claiming to be their grandchild. John teaches him how to sound pitiful and gracious, asking for money for bail. They have it wired into a bank account. “Please don’t tell my mom and dad,” Pete begs over the phone, and John looks on with pride. 

They hustle people at the local bars, catfish people on Tinder, and have wallet snatching competitions on the subway. Pete feels like it’s the greatest thing he’s ever done.

*

A grand heist requires grand preparation. When John thinks Pete is finally ready, John takes Pete to the Museum of Modern Art to stake the joint. John carries a little moleskine notebook and a pen; when he begins to sketch locations of cameras he expects Pete to create similar diagrams. Pete pulls out his phone and pretends to take notes.

‘Drowning Girl’ is on the second floor by the staircase. It depicts a crying woman amid a tumultuous blue sea; the painting uses solid fields of blue and white bounded by stark borders with a speech bubble above the woman’s head that contains the words “I don’t care! I’d rather sink than call Brad for help!”

John and Pete stand in front of the painting briefly before continuing to walk around the gallery as to not draw attention to themselves. John lectures Pete about the provenance of the artwork. “Roy Lichtenstein, 1963. Oil and paint on canvas. Definitive of the 20th century pop art movement.”

“We’re taking comic book art?”

“It’s worth $40 million,” John says dryly.

Pete looks over his shoulder at the painting. “Bitch ‘bout to be our girl."

*

John teaches Pete how to dress like a gentleman, among his other lessons. Pete’s not expecting it when John gifts him a gray suit, one that looks like his own.

John stands behind Pete, admiring his new look in the full-length mirror. He reaches forward to pluck a speck of dust from Pete’s collar, running his fingers down the smooth fabric. “You look splendid,” John says.

“Uh, I feel good,” Pete admits, inspecting his reflection. He turns, posing a little, checking out the clean lines of the jacket and the way the trousers made his legs look longer. John let him pick out the tie, and while it feels strange around his neck, it really does complete the outfit. “What’s your angle?” Pete asks, surprised by John’s attention.

“There isn’t one,” John admits. John steps closer, moving his chest flush with Pete’s back, and Pete can feel his hips brushing against John’s as John slides two delicate hands around his waist. John kisses Pete’s neck, brushing his lips against the skin so slowly Pete thinks he’ll die. When Pete says nothing John does it again, and Pete leans his head to the side to expose the skin. John kisses him again then bites his neck. Pete’s grin turns into a gasp. 

John looks at Pete’s eyes in the mirror. 

John wraps his arms around Pete’s waist but Pete spins impatiently in his grasp. Without waiting for John’s romantic touches, he presses their mouths together for a dirty kiss. John grabs his tie.

“It's a wonderful transformation,” John says. “It’s a shame I have to get you out of these clothes so soon.”

*

They take a few more trips to MOMA to canvas the building. Pete wears one of the gray suits John bought for him and starts to understand why John likes them. They’re uncomfortable, sure, but they add a degree of respectability that Pete couldn’t otherwise afford.

Pete loves the paintings by Salvador Dali; he thinks they’re a trip. “I want to party with this guy,” he says, looking at ‘The Persistence of Memory’ and remembering that one time in Harlem he was so high that his face felt like dripping off, just like one of Dali’s melting watches.

John might as well be a docent for the museum; he’s rusty in some areas but his knowledge impresses Pete to no end. He likes the sort of stuff that might as well be at the Met; Chagall and Matisse and this stupid fucking white painting by Malevich that Pete thinks is a piece of white shit. John calls it a “magnificent acquisition.”

Pete and John stop in front of Magritte’s ‘The Lovers’. There’s something mysterious but engaging about the two lovers portrayed in the painting, embracing yet shrouded from another, and the two men stand there studying the painting in silence for some time.

*

John is always going on about proper behavior versus inappropriate behavior, so Pete gets fed up one day. He puts on “Pony” by Ginuwine and takes off his jacket, dancing around while John sits on the couch with a bored look on his face.

“I’ll show you inappropriate,” Pete says, stripping off his shirt, doing a striptease for John, and John’s eyes widen when he realizes what’s happening in front of him. Pete runs a hand down his tattoed chest, dipping it beneath his waistband. He runs a hand over his crotch then thrusts a few times, doing a spin and landing on his knees in front John. He crawls forward on his hands and knees like a cat as John stares at him, bewildered. 

So close to Mulaney, Pete runs a hand up John’s leg. He takes John’s hand and places it on his chest, moving it lower and lower, and John leans in. John quakes, a full-body shudder. 

Pete bites his lip then closes the distance between them, kissing John soundly. John’s hand goes to Pete’s belt and he hoists him up and into his lap. Pete’s kisses are filthy; dirty, probing kisses that are full of tongue. 

John's hands work at his pants quickly, unable to hold back. Pretty soon both of their pants are laying forgotten on the floor.

John moves like he’s going to give Pete a blowjob, but Pete stops him. “Trust me.” Pete shimmies around so that he’s upside down, now in a position to suck John’s dick. It leaves Pete with his own big dick dangling in John’s face. John gets the message and opens his mouth, letting the head of Pete’s dick land on his tongue. 

Pete sucks John’s dick into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the hard flesh. He squeezes John’s thigh with encouragement.

John moans, opening his mouth wider, and Pete slips his cock in further, unable to stop his thrusts. They suck each other’s dicks in a 69 position, occasionally overwhelmed by the other’s skill, breathing heavily, bodies abuzz.

Pete lets John come on his face. He licks John’s come off his lips with a teasing smile.

*

John’s friend and collaborator Nick Kroll comes over one night with Chinese take-out. He’s so friendly, navigating John’s apartment with such familiarity that Pete assumes they must be partners, or lovers. Nick keeps whispering things in John’s ear instead of saying them out loud, and it’s starting to drive Pete nuts. He doesn’t have to take _confidence man_ quite so literally. Pete felt like he was John’s homie by now.

“Nick’s my fence,” John says at that very moment, like he can read Pete’s mind.

“Fence?” Nick overhears. “Fence? What is this, the 18th century? I am so much more than a fence.” The edges of John’s eyes crinkle when he smiles; he watches Nick with a look that makes Pete jealous. “I’m just a guy with connections, that’s all,” Nick explains. He never does tell Pete exactly what he does. 

They make decent conversation throughout dinner, and Pete feels like they have enough in common. At the very least, they have John in common.

They play cards after dinner. John has a poker face like he’s trying a case for a grand jury, Nick’s poker face consists mostly of glaring at Pete, and Pete has no poker face whatsoever. None of the three men are very good at the game; each one tries to cheat less suspiciously than the man next to him.

“Do you have to do that all the time?” Nick asks Pete when he blows smoke in his face.

“I’ve got a good reason.”

“I don’t know what could possibly qualify as a good reason to smoke weed every day.”

“Crohn’s Disease?”

Nick shuts up, feeling like an asshole.

When Pete lands a winning streak, John mocks his gloating. “Maybe you can pay the water bill this month.” Pete was notorious for taking long, hot showers that ran the warm water out before John could make it to the bathroom.

“He’s living _here_?” Nick asks, incredulous.

“It’s temporary,” John and Pete say at the same time. Nick looks between them.

“Okay,” he says. “Okay.”

“You should go home to your parents,” Nick tells Pete when John disappears to the restroom. John had been so damn busy with Pete the last two months that he hadn’t had nearly the time he used to for their cons.

“Don’t have any,” he smirks back. Strike two for Nick Kroll.

Nick convinces the boys to switch to blackjack, and proceeds to clean them both out.

*

When he thinks Pete is ready, John is determined to show off Pete’s new skills; his lessons are culminating in a demonstration for Kroll. 

John sits in his armchair with a newspaper folded over his head. Nick is on the sofa, scrolling through his phone and drinking a beer. They wait patiently for Pete to change clothes.

Pete steps out in a charcoal suit and black dress shoes. 

“Okay,” Nick shrugs. “So he can play dress up.”

John tosses Pete a burner phone. He catches it cleanly without moving anything except his hand, and dials a number. Pete begins speaking in perfect English, his words crisp and clean.

“Hello ma’am, my name is Colin. I’m calling from Fire Rescue. We’re in the middle of our annual fundraiser and I wanted to see if you’d like to renew your yearly contribution.” Pete waits for the woman on the other line to answer. “Yes, it’s a very noble cause.” He nods. “You know, for just double that amount, you’d be eligible to receive our calendar, featuring the firemen themselves.” Pete winks at John.

Nick doesn’t look impressed, thinking that Pete is losing the hook. “You bought the kid a dictionary,” Nick says to John under his breath.

“I just need a credit card number from you, as it looks like the one we have on file has expired.”

John holds his finger to his mouth to silence Nick. Pete opens up an app on his own phone and runs the card number.

“Thank you so much, Cindy. We do so appreciate your support.”

“What’d you get? Like twenty bucks?” Nick asks, when he hangs up. 

“Two hundred,” Pete says proudly, dropping the faux persona, and John claps loudly. 

“That’s my boy!”

*

Pete has learned to fake a genteel sensibility magnificently, and now he can even do it without descending into giggles like he used to.

John works hard on teaching Pete everything he knows and showing him how to become a gentleman, but spending so much time with the young man only forces John to start to realize that he loves him for who he is - baggy clothes, curse words, and all. Pete makes him laugh, and he’s lost count of the number of times their fits of laughter have turned into fevered make-out sessions.

John never stops trying to correct Pete, always trying to push him to a higher level. Pete does his best, but no matter what knowledge John bestows on him, retains that spark that makes him special, the spark that makes him _Pete_.

*

“We’re having dinner with Lorne Michaels.”

“Lauren? Is she hot?” Pete asks, looking up from the video game controller. He’d brought the Playstation console home one day, plugging it in to John’s TV. When he’d asked where it came from, Pete told him it fell off a truck and gave him a kiss. John stopped asking questions.

“ _Lorne_ ,” John corrects. “You’re going to be disappointed.”

Pete _is_ disappointed when he finds out that “Lauren” is a 70-year-old silver-haired Canadian man.

“Mr. Mulaney,” Lorne says immediately, shaking John’s hand. The way he says it makes it sound like John’s in trouble.

“Lorne,” John says warmly. “This is Pete Davidson.”

“Mm,” Lorne says, sizing Pete up after shaking his hand. “Nice to meet you, young man. John tells me you have a promising career ahead of you.”

“I would hope so, sir,” Pete responds, and John couldn’t be more proud.

“You’ll have to forgive me for rescheduling,” Lorne tells John. “I spent most of last week recovering from the flu. Awful.”

“No trouble at all, Lorne.”

“You know, they said my aunt died of the flu,” Pete says, picking up on the conversation. “I think they done her in. Why would she die of the flu when she got through pneumonia the year before? They thought she was dead at first but my uncle kept ladling gin down her throat.”

“And he… poured liquor down her throat? Wouldn’t that kill her?” Lorne asks.

“Not her. I mean, he poured so much down his own throat he knew the good of it.”

John’s clenching his napkin, knuckles turning white. The table is silent until John drops his fork. The silverware clatters loudly. Pete keeps talking. “She was missing her hat when they eventually found her dead. You know, I think whoever stole the hat probably killed her,” he surmises.

John takes advantage of the moment when Lorne excuses himself to the restroom. 

“That? There?” John says, referring to the dinner conversation. “ _You_ done me in. What the hell was that, Pete?” Frantic, John grabs the lapel of Pete’s suit. “Lorne Michaels is a very connected man. He can change a lot of things for a lot of people.” 

“I’m sorry, John, I just told the guy a story,” Pete apologizes.

“You’ve got moxie, kid.”

When Lorne comes back to the table, John takes over the conversation, and it’s the high-brow stuff Pete expected; economics, healthcare, politics.

After Lorne pays for their meals, Pete bounds away with a cigarette. Lorne stops John with a hand to his chest, talking in a low tone.

“You’re taking your sweet time,” Lorne chides John. “He’s perfect. Get the job done.”

*

“So what was that all about?” Pete asks John later. 

“Lorne is financing our project,” John explains. “He finally agreed. Lorne is coming up with five thousand dollars to back the heist; we need to come up with the other three thousand.”

“I got it,” Pete says.

“What?”

“Look, I haven’t like, paid rent or anything and I’ve been living at your pad. Let me do this.”

“Well… if you insist,” John agrees. _That was easier than I expected_ , he thinks, his heart sinking low in his chest.

“I do insist,” Pete says. “How did you two meet anyway?” Pete asks while he’s digging in his backpack for cash. He pulls out a wad of dollar bills that makes John wonder if he’s been hustling on the side.

“He was running a casting scam in midtown Manhattan. Lorne was posing as a producer for some comedy TV show. I auditioned; he told me I needed to pay upfront for headshots and some other stuff.”

“Wait. So he hustled _you_?”

John laughs, embarrassed. “He took all the money I saved from Chicago for a portfolio that never existed.”

“Holy shit,” Pete says.

“Yeah. Problem is, he liked me, and decided he could use me behind the scenes. So Lorne gave back everything he stole and put me to work.”

“How long ago was this?”

“Eleven years ago.”

Pete is stunned by John’s story. “That’s wild. Wild.” 

*

John takes Pete’s money straight to Lorne Michaels’ 6th Avenue office. His new secretary is a blonde girl with blue eyes and a button nose that John doesn’t recognize.

“Hey string bean,” she says. She has a wide friendly smile that makes John warm up to her despite her insult. 

“Lorne will see you now,” the blonde says, pushing the door to Lorne’s office open.

“Thank you, Kate,” Lorne says. She salutes him. “Hello, John.”

“Lorne.”

“Um, I hope you have something for me?”

John reaches into the inside pocket of his suit jacket and pulls out a manila envelope stuffed with cash. He throws it onto Lorne’s wooden desk.

“Do I need to count this?” Lorne asks.

John shakes his head. “No. It's all there. Three thousand.” Despite the way things had been going with Pete, there’s no way he’d risk disappointing Lorne Michaels. He relied on the work he provided too much, and who knew what would happen if he disobeyed orders. Lorne could kill John’s reputation, or worse, kill him.

“Very good. Look, let me tell you about this new opportunity for Pete.”

Lorne tells John about a new job, a B&E with the potential to rake in almost half a million. It sounds dangerous, built for risk, and not the kind John finds thrilling. He’d never had to carry a weapon on any of Lorne’s jobs before; he didn’t know why this was being asked of Pete now. 

“No,” John says.

“Excuse me?” Lorne asks, raising an eyebrow.

“No. He’s not doing it. I’m not getting him to do that for you,” John tells him, drawing a line and standing up for his friend. It was bad enough that Lorne had forced him to steal the money from Pete.

“I’d like you to think carefully about what you’re doing here, John,” Lorne says. His words are deliberate and measured.

“He’s a good kid. You’re going to get him killed.”

“I don’t know what to tell you, John. We need him for this job; it’s a big one. If Pete won’t do it, you’ll just have to find me someone else who will.”

*

When John gets home, he surveys the mountain of marijuana on his coffee table. “There’s a depression on, you know?”

“You mean my life?” Pete smirks. He raises a blunt to his lips.

“Sometimes it’s difficult being around this,” John admits, motioning to all the weed. Pete frowns - now that he thinks about it, he’s never seen John partake. Not even once. He doesn’t know what to say. “Look, I don’t think this is working out,” John manages to get out, surprised he doesn’t trip over his words. If John didn’t go through with this, making Pete believe him, there was no way Lorne was going to let this kid get away scot-free. This might be John’s only chance to protect him.

“What are you talking about? Is this because of what I said to Lorne at dinner?”

“I think you should go.”

“Are you fuckin' serious?”

“It’s not a joke.”

“You’re a stuck-up fucking nerd,” Pete says, taking an angry bong hit. He blows the smoke in John’s face.

“Heartless guttersnipe.”

“Fuck you, man,” and John tries to ignore the pain in Pete’s voice. The blow-off is the final step of a con, the last move in the game. The way to guarantee Pete Davidson is off his case forever. If he does his job correctly, when Pete walks out his door, it will be for the last time.

*

John doesn’t expect to see Pete at his door a week later, two days before the heist is scheduled to go down. He jams his hands into his pockets when John cracks open the door.

“Hey.”

“Hello.” Pete doesn’t say anything for a moment so John continues. “Can I help you?”

“I want to do the job.”

“That’s a bad idea.”

John starts to close the door, but Pete sticks his foot out to stop him. “I said I want to do the job.”

With a sigh, John pulls the door open to let Pete in. He straightens his tie. Pete follows him into the kitchen.

"You gonna let me help you do this or what?"

John stares at Pete until he finds the courage to speak.

“I’m sorry, Pete. There is no heist. There was never any heist. ‘Drowning Girl’ was a myth.”

The bombshell is a big one. John’s lie detonates between them, and Pete looks stunned. 

“All those trips to the art galleries and shit?” Pete can’t help but slip into his old vernacular.

“Dates, Pete.”

“Dates?”

“Excuses to spend time with you.”

Pete runs a hand through his short hair, agitated. “I don’t know what’s worse, man, that you made up this job or that you made up this relationship.”

“I didn’t make up anything that happened between us.”

“You think I believe that, John? You are literally a con artist! Your fucking job description is to lie to people!” Pete looks hurt. He tugs at a chunk of his own hair. “You have always thought that you’re better than me. And for three thousand bucks.”

“I didn’t lie to you about the way I feel. Pete. Pete!”

It’s too late; he’s out the door in a split second. Pete is gone.

*

John suspects he’s probably heard the last of Pete Davidson when his face pops up on the caller ID just over two weeks later. 

“John, John, John,” Pete says in a panicked voice over the phone. 

“Slow down,” John tells him. “Are you okay?”

“I fucked up, man,” Pete says, letting out an inhuman wail. “ _John_.”

“Tell me what you need.”

“I need - can I - John, you gotta help me. You gotta pick me up.”

“Pete, you know I can’t drive,” John laughs. Pete didn’t. In all their time together, _that_ had never come up.

“I thought you were a car thief!”

“What? I steal many, many things, but cars are not one of them.”

“You were talking about taking that Titian like two weeks ago!”

“A portrait by the _Italian painter_ , not a Nissan.”

“Fuck,” Pete curses. “John, can I come over? Please?”

John hears the urgency in Pete’s voice and agrees.

Ten minutes after their phone conversation, there’s a knock at John’s door. John opens the door and Pete is standing there in a houndstooth jean jacket with blood on his hands. 

“Fuck, man.”

Pete follows him inside after John is sure that nobody is watching. He wets a dish towel in the sink with warm water, handing it to Pete wordlessly.

“You’re not going to ask what happened?” Pete says, scrubbing his fingers. John notices there’s blood on Pete’s shirt and on the tips of his sneakers. He raises his eyebrows. “Yeah, you want me to tell you,” Pete says, resigned. He drops the towel and hops up on the counter. He pulls a Beretta 92 from his pants and lays it on the counter.

“Jesus, Pete.” John’s head swims at the sight of the weapon.

“Yeah. The mark pulled a gun on me. I didn’t know what to do, man. I thought I was gonna die. Working for Lorne, no less,” he says, disgusted. John grimaces. Lorne had gotten his hooks back into Pete, regardless of John’s involvement.

“Did anyone see you?”

Pete shakes his head. “Don’t know. I heard sirens and ran as fast as I could. I stopped behind a dumpster to call you and didn’t look back.”

“You’re lucky.” John pulls a garbage bag from under the sink and holds it out for Pete, who strips and drops his bloody clothing in the bag. “Is he alive?”

Pete crosses his arms across his bare chest. “I didn’t stop to look.”

John blinks rapidly when Pete pulls his baggy jeans off his legs, not ready for the unexpected surprise of Pete’s naked body. Pete stands there, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, and John forgets to say anything until Pete awkwardly says “So…”

John realizes for the first time that Pete is bleeding. He takes Pete’s hand in his own, inspecting the gash above Pete’s wrist. John bandages it with a first aid kit he keeps under the sink, holding Pete’s hand gently as he works.

Pete looks at his bandaged wrist with a sour face. “I hope my tat’s not fucked,” he says.

“You’re lucky you’re not fucked, Davidson.”

“A little weed and I’ll be fine.”

John motions for Pete to follow him into the bedroom. John digs through his dresser for a clean t-shirt and suitable pants that won’t offend Pete but can’t find anything but a pair of board shorts, which he hands to Pete with an apologetic look.

Pete shakes as he puts John’s clothing on, pulling John’s Talking Heads shirt over his head with unsteady hands.

John catches Pete’s quivering hands, stroking a finger over his palm to try and calm him down. John realizes Pete’s entire body is shaking, and he reaches an arm around Pete’s shoulders to pull him into a hug. John tucks Pete’s head against his chest, and Pete makes a noise that sounds like a sob.

*

Pete hides out in John’s apartment for eight days. He watches news coverage of the murder on the television and eats the take-out John brings home daily. He starts reading John’s books to pass the time, starts doing his weird puzzles and writes in a leather-bound journal John gave to him before all this shit went down.

Eventually, cabin fever kicks in.

“I gots to bail on this shithole, dude,” Pete says, concerned, looking at John.

“ _I must leave this place_ ,” John corrects him automatically. Pete thinks he’s probably trying to fix his statement but it sounds just as much like he’s echoing his sentiment, sharing the same desire to get out of there and put New York City in the rearview mirror.

“I can’t live in your apartment forever. I want to move to California.”

“That’s across the country,” he responds, shocked.

“Somebody’s going to recognize me in New York,” Pete reminds him sadly. “I can start over in L.A.”

John’s still stunned into silence. 

“Come with me,” Pete says suddenly. He inches closer to John. “Mulaney, you should totally come with me.”

“I have a life here. An apartment.”

“You have a _job_ here,” Pete scowls. “Working for Lorne. Why do you do it, anyway?” Pete must have had a change of heart since the last job went off the rails. 

“Seems worthwhile,” John answers, feeling as if his response is inadequate. Working for Lorne Michaels has given him all sorts of opportunities he wouldn’t have had otherwise, and life had been better with the advantages of Lorne’s resources. For the last few years, this life was all he had known. 

“Really? Working for that fuck?”

John leans his head against Pete’s shoulder, thinking. “You might be right.”

“What if I said I had a plan?”

*

John runs one last scam for Lorne. They’d patched things up after Pete had disappeared because John was desperate for steady sources of income and reliable jobs. Lorne has John working a simple extortion scheme. He takes a large sum of money from a wealthy businessman that Lorne had managed to get photos of (rather risque photos of the man with a woman who was decidedly not his wife), getting the blackmail money in cash.

John steps out of the 6th Avenue building, and he’s faced with a choice. He can turn right, and take the bundle of cash to Lorne, get his own paycheck and return to the status quo.

John looks the other way, toward the west, remembering what he and Pete had discussed. A breeze flutters by, rustling his hair.

John pockets the money and walks briskly in the opposite direction of Lorne’s office, long legs picking up speed.

*

John arrives at his apartment and throws the envelope onto the coffee table. Pete picks it up and counts its contents - ten thousand dollars.

“Yeah, boy!” Pete whoops. John coughs. “Jackpot,” Pete says, enunciating clearly. Excited, he puts his hands on John’s cheeks and pulls him into a kiss, their first kiss since John ran the long con on Pete. Pete kisses him like he’s missed him, desperate and focused, and John opens his mouth, lets Pete take everything he wants. 

“Can I make it rain?” Pete whispers.

“You’ll do nothing of the sort.”

Pete makes a disappointed sigh, and John reaches out to snatch him by the waist. He pulls him in close until there’s a big smile on his face. 

“Sit down, old man,” Pete tells John, pushing against his chest.

John falls back against the couch and Pete straddles him. Pete takes John’s chin between his fingers and licks at his mouth, diving in for a dirty kiss. Pete leads the kiss with force so that John can do nothing but open his mouth wider for Pete’s tongue and make needy noises in his throat. 

John grabs Pete’s skinny waist and grinds their hips together. Pete kisses him harder, bites his lip as he loosens his tie and discards it. Pete unbuttons his dress shirt and kisses his way down John’s chest.

“Life is so unbearably boring without you,” John tells him, pressing his thumb into Pete’s hip.

“I bet,” Pete agrees, the brat. He undulates. He sees a twinkle when he looks into John’s eyes, and he decides they’re taking things to the next level. They’ve come this far, after all. “I’m gonna fuck you,” Pete says, grinding their hips together.

“Yeah, fuck,” John breathes.

“What was that?”

“I said _yes_ , Pete,” John says, speaking clearly this time. Of course Pete would lord a mistake over him at this particular moment. 

Pete climbs off John and starts stripping his clothes off. John eyes his tattoos and the lines of his abs. “Don’t just sit there,” Pete commands. John follows suit. “You want to do this here? Or in a bed?”

Moving to the bedroom makes things feel more serious, somehow, and Pete is slow as he corners John on the bed and gets him to lie flat on his back. He slides John’s boxers down his hips - he’d been too shy to run into the bedroom naked like Pete. Massaging his thighs, he licks John’s penis teasingly, running his tongue around the head. 

Pete mouths John’s cock until he’s barely able to form words. Pete manages to find Vaseline in a drawer, so he lubes up his fingers and gets to work. An embarrassing noise escapes John’s mouth when he slides in the first finger, and Pete stifles a laugh against the inside of John’s thigh. 

Pete works him open, and while John seems surprised at him adding a third finger, Pete knows he needs it. John arches his back, and Pete fucks him on his fingers until John is whining like a little girl. Pete nips at his thigh. “Yo, you ever been fucked before?”

John swallows. Pete crooks his fingers when John shakes his head no just to get that bashful look off his face.

“You’re going to love it,” Pete promises, “but you might wish you started with a smaller dick your first time.”

“Humble. Thank you for thinking about my ass.”

“I think about your ass all the time, Mulaney.” Pete slaps John’s thigh. “Come on. Turn over.” Pete knows exactly how he wants to fuck John, wants to see his ass in the air while Pete shows him who’s boss.

Pete fucks John for the first time that night. John is as instructive as usual, telling Pete exactly what he wants. Pete does his best to oblige, following John’s instructions as closely as possible.

John feels split open at first, but he lets out a low, guttural moan when Pete buries himself completely inside John. Pretty soon John is arching his hips up, pushing back at Pete like a needy slut. Pete fucks him at a steady pace, spreading John’s cheeks and spitting on his dick when the Vaseline’s not enough.

Pete pulls out and jerks off, coming over John’s ass. He spanks him for good measure, sliding his fingers through his come. 

John turns over, pink-cheeked and fucked out. Pete cuddles up to him. “You sure you’ve never bottomed before?” he asks. “Because you sure take it like you were meant to.”

John’s cheeks flush red. He reaches down to palm his dick, which is flushed and throbbing, but keeps his hand still. “Tell me what to do,” he says to Pete, who is watching him eagerly. Pete looks surprised for a second - did John get off on this? It certainly explained why he liked telling Pete what to do so much.

“Lick your hand,” he begins. Pete sits back for the best view of John’s naked body. “Grab your dick,” he says. John obeys, wrapping his long fingers around his cock. “Tighter.” John squeezes, and Pete can tell he wants to thrust his hips into his grip. “That’s it. Touch your balls.” John lifts his other hand and strokes his ballsack. His eyes flutter closed. “Rub your thumb over the head,” and John follows Pete’s instruction but elaborates a little, running his thumb over the slit and circling the head of his dick with his thumb. “Fuck,” Pete says. “Okay, really grab your dick and move your hand - shit, you know how to jerk off.” John starts jacking off, building a steady rhythm. When his breathing starts to speed up and his eyes blink too fast, Pete tells him to slow down. The worst part is when Pete tells him to take his hand away entirely. “Touch yourself,” Pete commands, and John jerks off slowly. “More. More.” John works his dick until he’s close to coming, and Pete gets frustrated and knocks his hand away. He goes down on him, sucking and hollowing his cheeks around John’s member. It’s not long until he’s coming down Pete’s throat.

After they clean themselves off, they canoodle in John’s bed, running their hands over each other’s skin and kissing each other lazily. 

“You got no choice now,” Pete says, kissing John with a loud smack. “Lorne will kill you if you stay in New York. Plus, I think you’re gonna like L.A.”

“I do have a choice. I'm choosing you,” John says.

“Stop being so cheesy,” Pete says, but he lets John gives him the best kiss of his life.

*

They spend two days packing up the apartment, deciding what can fit in the car and what’s garbage. Anything extra has to go. Nick sends a guy over to John’s house to clean out the excess stuff, and soon John and Pete are left with only a few boxes stacked in the middle of the living room. Nick also gets them fake passports, and helps them secure a used 1997 Toyota Tercel so they don’t have to cross the country in a stolen vehicle. 

John steals an atlas from an unlocked car that he uses to map out their planned route, dragging a red Sharpie along the roads he wants them to take. They’ll start out on the highway, just to get out of town, then hit back roads through the Midwest, where they’ll stop in Chicago to see John’s family. Then they’ll drive on through the middle of the country (with a pit stop in Colorado for Pete) and stay a few days in Las Vegas, where they’ll run a few cons and gamble until they have enough money saved for their new life on the west coast. From Sin City it’s a short drive, maybe four hours, through the desert to the City of Angels - Los Angeles, California.

Pete dyes his hair platinum blonde on the morning of the road trip. John can’t stand it at first, but Pete gives him the middle finger over a box of bleach.

John puts on a plaid shirt and one of Pete's black beanies. He throws on a pair of glasses just to shake it up. John lays out a white dress shirt and khaki slacks for Pete. “Are you fucking serious?” Pete complains, feeling like a youth pastor. 

John touches his finger to Pete’s lips. “Just until we get out of New York,” he says. He hands Pete a black t-shirt that he doesn’t recognize and Pete unrolls it. It’s from Kid Cudi’s last tour. It’s definitely not one of John’s shirts; he must have picked it up just for Pete. His heart thuds in his chest.

John loads everything into the car, still too worried for Pete to risk him being seen during that ten minutes. He considers honking the horn to call Pete downstairs, but thinks better of it and goes back up to collect him.

John finds Pete looking around the room fondly. He sneaks up behind him and wraps his arms around Pete's shoulders. 

Pete turns around. "Yo, you ready?"

John steals a kiss before they hit the road, two men en route to a new life.

Pete rolls down the windows when they hit 280 west in New Jersey. He cranks up Steely Dan’s “Dirty Work”, and John cracks a smile. The further west they drive, the fresher the air feels. The freer Pete and John feel. They have their futures ahead of them, a new life in Los Angeles. They can be whoever they want to be. They can start new lives unencumbered by the mistakes of their pasts. Maybe John could even look into the comedy thing again, an interest he’d squelched after falling in with Lorne Michaels all those years ago.

Pete drives westward for the first nine hours before he gets sleepy, and eventually pulls the car into a gas station. He yawns. “Can you drive for a bit, dude?” 

John looks at Pete, amused. “You know I can’t drive.”

Appalled that he’s forgotten this crucial fact, and that he’ll apparently be driving solo to Los Angeles, Pete drops his fist onto the steering wheel with an unhappy laugh. The horn blares.

“Fuck!”


End file.
